Farewells, From Your Local Alchemist
by misthallery
Summary: I - I just want to go home. Is that really too much to ask? [Brotherhood/Manga; sprinkles and elements of FMA2003 sprinkled in. Very OC centric.]
1. At the Boundary of Light and Darkness

It begins with a nightmare.

I want to make myself believe that's it's only a dream; I want to make myself believe it's only fantasy, that it's not real, that it's all made up. That when I wake up, I'll find myself in my room, I'll find myself at home, I'll find myself with my friends, my family- my brother.

That it will all just be forgotten. Insignificant, a flash of a moment, something that will be lost as I go among my day on the Earth- _my _Earth.

I want to forget. I want to move on.

But I cannot.

It starts, it begins- in whiteness.

There's nothing- absolutely _nothing_\- for what feels like forever. It feels surreal. To my left, nothing, to my right, nothing, to my back, nothing, to my front, nothing, just nothing nothing nothing nothing _nothing-_

It's blank.

Nothing.

I try to see beyond, but I can't. For what seems like forever, the bareness stretched on for miles and miles and miles- there isn't even a _horizon. _Just a whiteness that lasts forever and ever.

I don't even know if I'm standing, or lying, or floating; there's nothing telling me what's going on. The shuffling of my feet doesn't help at all.

The whiteness is blinding, and, oddly, deafening. If there was anything beyond the maddening whiteness, It would've been impossible for me to sense it, for the Whiteness and Nothingness drowned everything out, ate everything up, and it was the only, single, thing that dominated.

I am afraid.

My heart races; my breathing heaves. It's the only thing I can hear, the only thing I can see. Myself- and the Whiteness.

Where am I? What is this? This is only a dream, so why does it feel so _weird, _so _different, _and just straight out, undeniably _wrong _and _sick_-

Then there is a Gate.

I don't know how it appears or how it comes to be. But, suddenly, it is there, looming before me, high and tall and mighty and holy, almost as if it were a countering force to the Whiteness, the Nothingness, and I would've liked it- but it seems to be at home in the Nothingness. It's a force to be reckoned with, and I am intimidated. I can't help but step back, horrified.

It doesn't look too much like a Gate, in the literal sense, like the gate that stands before my home; instead, it is two large stone tablets, standing cold and gray in the expanse. Patterned with intricate carvings, echoing towards an image of a tree, with too many circles and symbols I can't even begin to understand, it casts no shadow.

I stare at it- the Gate radiates an energy I don't understand, one I've never felt before, one I've never sensed before; it's like a heat, but so much more intense and powerful, and there's just something about it that makes my very being, my very _soul, _tremble in fear.

I am scared.

Then there's a voice, a chilling, a dark, an echoing and powerful voice- it calls my name.

"Haylin Riddle."

I flinch in fear, and I whip around. My eyes are wide, my body is tense; I look like a wild, cornered animal.

And then I see… _It._

It's body is completely white, radiating a black aura that surrounds It's entire body (and I am faintly glad for this aura, for if it didn't exist it probably would've been impossible to see in this whiteness). Like the gate, it casts no shadow; It has no visible, defining features- other than Its silhouette- that shows It is human (is it even human?) or that It holds any kind of identity to call Its own- all It has is Its Chesire Cat grin, the grin that boasts, the grin that tells you that it knows more than you can even imagine. That it's something to be reckoned with- just like the Gate.

I don't have to ask to know what it is.

Truth.

The self-proclaimed 'god', the self-proclaimed 'everything', the self-proclaimed 'all is one, one is all', who claims to be _me._

And I have crossed into Its dominion. Crossed into where no mortal may tread, where if they ever do, must pay a horrible, horrible, price.

And I am one of them.

I flinch, take two steps back, my breathing coming in gasps.

I am terrified.

It smiles. The grin burns my eyes, and it stretches, stretches, farther than humanly possible; a maddening grin, and I need to run away. Be anywhere but here.

It says my name again.

"Haylin," It tells me, "you know where you are, yes?"

I stare at It, incredulous. It continues.

"You do, don't you." The smile stretches farther. "Welcome to the Gate, puny mortal."

"The Gate," I murmur in an echo, almost in a hypnotic tone, then catch myself, sending It a glare. "What the freaking hell?"

There is a pause.

"That's interesting," It notes, "you cursed. You don't curse a lot, do you? No, you don't; it's surprising, considering how your best friend- Justice Torres- curses more than a sailor whenever she's… excited. Am I correct?" It doesn't sound as if It's asking a question; it's as if It knows so much more than It lets in, and is mocking me with tidbits of my life.

(A life, at the moment, don't know I may never get back to.)

I don't know how to respond. It feels too much like a dream, and as I continue to stare at It, my fear slowly erodes away, my mind slowly filling with a numbness, a feeling of slight dread and helplessness when you've given up, when there's nothing else to do but just lose yourself in the nothingness.

I don't know what's going on, but I say, "That's right."

It just nods, It's head bouncing up and down rhythmically, and my eyes follow It, almost monotonically. "Correct, correct," It goes, along with It's words; "you are correct." It smiles again.

"Haylin Riddle. Elder twin sister to Warren Riddle, and only daughter of Clara and Adan Riddle. Is of Filipino and French origin, with some Spanish, Indonesian, and Italian sprinkled in. A dirty blonde, darker than your father's. Dark brown eyes, like your mother's. Olive-toned skin, a combination of your parents' dark and fair skin. Only fifteen years old, and is currently attending the tenth grade in high school." It pauses, as if it's letting me process that.

I stare at It, blinking, then give It a goofy smile. "Wow, y'know a lot 'bout my family and my life and all. Pretty impressive."

It just chuckles. "You ignorant little child. You may know who and what I am, but you do not realize the purse significance, the absolute _importance_, of this moment, do you?"

I tilt my head. "Ahhh, no, not really." I pause. "But it's all a dream, isn't it? So I'm just gonna wake up, and everything's just gonna go away. Dreams aren't real. They have no connection to real life, that's stupid!" I feel drunk. I think I can outsmart it; it's just a dream, so what kind of intelligence can it really have? "I'm gonna forget all of this when I wake up. 'Cause it's just not real."

A chuckle vibrates from within the throat(?) of Truth, and It looks very amused. "Ignorance. Isn't that right? The natural, what you call the supernatural- it's all connected, it's all tied together tightly in threads, it's all _one_. It's a circle, a meaningless circle, a circle you cannot understand. Humans- you're afraid of what you cannot understand, cannot comprehend. Practically weaklings."

I don't understand where It is going, but then it booms: "Child! This is _real_! All the _visions _you hear of. All the _prophesying _you hear of. This- this is what you live in, _right now. _You've only _scratched the surface_! The multiverse is _filled _with things, not even _I _can begin to comprehend." A smirk, a maddening smirk, then: "Times are changing, my dear human; the Universes cannot adjust to this revolution, so it is bending, shaping, _changing. _And you've launched yourself into it."

I don't know what to say- _what the actually fuck, this is freaking _real?! _This is a dream, this is a dream, this is a dream, this is just a dreAM-_\- but before I can do anything the gate swings wide open, and I see the single, most terrifying thing in my life- an eye. It's horrifying- it seems to manifest _sin _itself, its voidless, snake-like pupil zeroing down on me, narrowing with something I cannot understand. The void behind and beyond it is a black hole in itself- it emits no light, and instead it seems to swallow up everything that ever gets in its path.

Including me.

I feel a tug at my arms, and my hands automatically go forward, against my will- then my legs, then my entire being. I can't resist- it's not just at my body, but my mind; I'm losing myself, and I feel as if my existence is being torn apart at the seams, and I try to pull away, but to no avail. My vision begins to dull, to fade, to darken.

"D-don't I have to pay something? An arm? A _leg_?" I beg. I've never resorted to begging, in my _life- _but I want to get out of this, so so _badly_. "Can't you tell me _anything_-?!"

Truth just laughs. "That just ruins the fun in it. And you're cursing again, human." He doesn't bother to answer my first question.

"_S-shut up_!" I'm fading away- I don't even question how It knows my thoughts. My heart should be racing, but it's not there. The darkness starts to enfold my vision; I feel as if I'm going to die. "W-why me?! Why not someone else- I have a home, friends, family, a _life_\- it isn't _fair_-!"

If It could, It would narrow It's eyes at me. "Ignorant mortal," it spits, "don't be selfish. Don't you understand that practically everyone else in your world is the same? There is no difference! And-and _fair? _What a stupid word- _nothing _is fair! This isn't your choice. _Fate _isn't your choice. It has already been chosen- and you think you can just _ignore _it? Pass it off, as if it were nothing, as if you _actually_ had the power to do _anything_? Of course not! You have no say- that is the truth. And the Truth hurts, my friend." I don't know if It says anything more, for the next thing I know is that is that It's words are fading, fading- and it's gone, swallowed up by the hollow darkness.

And then I fall.

And then there is nothing.

* * *

"_It's raining really hard, Haylin." My brother stands by the door. His face is masked by the shadows that tumble from the window, his bright blue eyes peeking from dirty blond locks._

"_...W-Warren?" A rustle. I try to sit up, a bit startled by his arrival; the roughness in my voice, the raspiness in my tone, tells him I've been asleep- long asleep. He seems to back up a little at this, even when I continue to speak. "H-hey. Don't go. Warren- what's going on? It's raining- y-yeah, it is. What 'bout it?"_

"_I…" he hesitates, his gaze flickering away for the briefest of moments, and I can't see anything, only his small silhouette hovering at the door frame. "...I dunno. I-It just worries me, for some reason, that's all."_

_I'm confused, but he's my brother, my little brother- by only a handful of minutes, but still little- and with visible effort I heave myself up and forwards, turning on the lamp. We both flinch at the sudden, sharp, blinding light of that tiny little light bulb, startled, and with squinted eyes I watch as my brother makes his way towards me, sitting himself down at my bedside, his eyes downcast. "Haylin…"_

_I can't help but feel worried, and I try to get a better look at him, my eyes quickly shifting to the window, the rain beginning to drizzle faintly outside. "What is it?" With a smirk, I can't help but tease him, just to lighten the mood. "You scared of a little rain?"_

_He shoots me a look, legitimately irritated, his two blue eyes sharpening- a rare thing for him, and I shut my mouth, knowing that it wasn't the time or place. When he sees me startled, he sighs, looking away again. "Sorry, Haylie." He calls me by that childish nickname of mine, but for once, I decide not to comment. "It's just… I-I don't know. It sounds stupid, b-but- there's something- it's abnormal. It's not natural, this storm. I don't like it."_

_I raise an eyebrow. It's selfish, it's rude- but I'm a bit humored by him nervousness, somewhat entertained by his antiques. I don't believe him at all._

_I can't. Why should I believe him?_

_But nevertheless I chuckle slightly, and pulling myself more out of bed, pulling the covers of my chest, I make my way closer to my brother, wrapping my arms around his chest and resting my chin on his shoulder, closing my eyes as a soft smile played on my lips. "C'mon. Let me hug you for a bit. Let big sis take care of ya. I'll scare all the ghosts away."_

_I can sense Warren rolling his eyes in slight embarrassment, but I could tell he likes it. He misses it (and I do, too). "You're older than me by only three minutes."_

_I laugh. "Still older."_

_A shuffling, the crinkle of sheets- and at first, I think he's pulling away, but I'm a bit surprised when he comes in closer, his hands holding onto mine. "We're fifteen, Haylin. We don't do this kind of thing anymore."_

"_Does it matter?" When he doesn't answer, I push it. "Hey- remember as kids, when we slept in the same bed until we were eight? You'd touch my nose every so often to see I was awake, and I'd get really annoyed. You didn't sleep as quickly as you do now; you stayed awake for hours, even after I'd been long asleep. And snoring." I get a small laugh out of that. I continue, my words floating over the soft drumming of the rain outside. "Remember that, Warren?"_

_I look up at him as he looks at me with a warm smile and a, "Of course. What made you think I forgot-"_

_Before he could finish, however, I startle him with a laugh, pulling him backwards as he screamed. "Then why can't we do it again?!" I grab his arms and we tumble backwards, and we find ourselves side by side and staring at the ceiling, covers a mess, our chests heaving with laughter._

"_H-Haylin!" Warren's surprised, but I can tell he's enjoying it. "If mom and dad hears us-"_

"_They won't," I assure him, hitting him teasingly on his chest. "You worry head."_

"_Well." He huffs indignantly, and I can't help but grin madly as that mischievous streak of his surfaces. "You worry more than I do, and you know that- do I have that mad cleaning ritual every Sunday morning? Freaking out whenever guests come over, insisting that we painstakingly clean everything for hours before they even arrive? Even when it's just the sisters."_

"_Shut up!" I hit him again. "Cleaning is important! Sundays are important- new week, church, everything! It's only natural that they go together. And when people come it's important to have a good image."_

_Warren huffs again. "You're the same as ever."_

_I laugh. "Same goes to you, too, you know."_

_He heaves a long sigh, and I turn my head to see him wide awake, not even close to exhaustion, his eyes wide as he stared up at the ceiling, his hands resting on his chest where I had hit him. I quirk an eyebrow, my hand shifting to his as the rain begins to get heavy._

"_...are you sure you're okay?" I'm concerned again._

_He doesn't respond at first, but when the worry begins to creep in again he says, "I am. Thanks, Haylin." He smiled at me, that smile that melted girls' hearts when he was just five, that smile that despite how it lost its touch on everyone else, never managed to lose its touch on mine. _

"_But earlier-"_

"_Forget about earlier," he says before I can finish, but I can tell he doesn't really mean it. Thunder crashes outside, and the rain begins to become deafening. "I don't want you to worry."_

_I turn away. I don't want him to see me, and I glance outside; the rain is falling in sheets. "It's raining hard," I note lazily._

_I can't see him, but his glare pricks my back. "Don't change the subject!"_

_A flash of light. Another boom. Thunder rolls outside._

"_You said you didn't want me to worry," I counter, "so I'm not. I'm going with what you told me; what's so wrong with that?"_

_Warren falls silent. I look over at him to see him biting his lip; he's reconsidering his words. And I'm confused. My mind goes back to my initial confusion; what's so worrisome about this storm, anyway?_

"_...I still don't want you to worry," he finally says, his gaze flickering to mine, "but-but just know I am. I can't help it. Don't worry about me; I'll take care of this myself." His voice is shaky, and he continues, a nervous laugh sharpening his words. "Hey- maybe it's just for now, huh? I bet tomorrow we'll just laugh this off. No biggie."_

_The thunder screams, and light briefly fills up the room._

_I can tell he doesn't believe himself. But this is for the sake of him. I can't have him worrying. So I pull him in closer, turn on my side and wrap my left arm around him._

_I hope he feels my warmth. "Just go to sleep."_

_He's startled. "But-"_

_The boom outside startles us again. The rain pounds mercilessly against the roof. "Hey. Don't stress yourself out." Please, don't worry._

_He senses the unspoken words; he goes silent for a moment, and for a brief second he doesn't do anything. But then I feel him relax, his body loosening into the bed. He turns to me, his eyes slowly softening; he's tired._

_I smile at him, my smile and eyes echoing his. "Love you."_

_He chuckles. "Love you, too."_

_We both close our eyes, and we both fall asleep, wrapped in each other's arms; but not before I whisper my last four words, before we drift into unconsciousness:_

"_See you tomorrow morning."_

* * *

But we never did.

* * *

**A/N: And there it goes- Chapter One. Hopefully, I didn't fail as badly as I think I did...**

**Okay, so let me go over a couple of things. First of all- you may notice how Truth is... a little out of character, possibly, showing more emotion than it (did you know I, for some reason, think of truth as a 'he' sometimes...?) usually does when you see it in the anime/manga whatever- as well as some of the thing it says. Trust me- it's all planned, it's all planned' you'll all see soon enough. I just jope that the initial and original personality of Truth is evident enough to show that it's Truth, but something different's up.**

**Also- a lot of you may not know me. I've never written for the Fullmetal Alchemist fandom, so- hallo and salutations, the name's Ten Reasons For Nothing, and I've mostly written for Hetalia before I wrote this story right here. Rather recently I've taken a break from fanfiction writing and went on to other things, mostly to polish my writing abilities- including running a fanfiction review blog and other things- but since school starts in just two weeks. and I'll be taking a Creative Writing class in my sophomore year, I've decided- after getting bombarded with plot bunnies- to start this one up and use it as practice, I suppose, throughout my school year.**

**For what feels like the first time, I've actually planned out this story. The outline, while it may not be exactly finished, goes in for a couple of chapters, so it's possible I may get the next chapter up quickly. This story, by the way, is an OC-into-the-FMA trope fic-but I've been trying to get a little new take on it, so... it's going to be different. I'll be focusing a lot on the character development of my own characters and certain OCs that live in the FMA world themselves, and not just on the entire 'adventure' thing with the Elrics and such. More or less, if you didn't catch what iIwas trying to say- in a can, I'm attempting a new angle at this trope. Hopefully, I'll be successful.**

**So... I suppose that's it. Thanks for finding the time to read my fanfiction, and read and review!**

**\- Ten Reasons**


	2. To Borrow a Song From Tomorrow

Pain.

I cannot comprehend anything else.

It courses through my mind, it's a burning river of living fire, screaming, racing, and it feels as if it's the living embodiment of _pain itself_—

but

_I know everything_

I realize the pain is Knowledge— thoughts, images, equations, _everything of this World_— stuffed into my mind, and I find myself screaming for it to stop, please just _stop_, I can't take it _anymore_—

And then I'm falling— down, down, down, down down down down—

And then there is nothing.

* * *

I wake up.

A gasp; I'm shooting up in bed, one hand clutching desperately onto my sheets. My eyes are wide; I'm heaving. My breath goes, one by one by one, and it's the only thing I'm focusing on for that moment: _I am alive._

My bed is damp from sweat; the moisture dots my skin, my bare arms. Light, bold pillars from the windows, pierces my vision— for a moment, I cannot focus on anything else other than my own being.

_I am alive. I am alive. I am alive..._

But, then— I am aware of only one thing— and I stand up straight, back rigid.

My brother.

_Where is Warren?_

"W—Warren?" I find myself croaking, my voice sore; then, louder, fiercer, more fearfully: "Warren? Wa—Warren!" I pull myself out of bed. My body aches— but I do not care. I cannot care.

I need my brother.

_He—he was here last night, _I am recalling, aimlessly lumbering throughout the room, my mind still struggling to catch up, wake up; I physically force myself towards the doorknob, my side banging against the dark, oak, door, and I grasp the jiggling knob tightly like a drunken child. _He didn't leave. I would've noticed._

I turn, forcibly, and I almost fall face-first into the wooden floor— I jerk up my head in attempt to catch myself, my feet stumble clumsily, and I can't help but feel faintly surprised that I do not fall over.

"Warren?" I call into the twisting hallways I cannot recognize— I'm in a dream, I'm sure of it, but why does it _feel too real_— with no real goal to reach. _I just need to find him, that idiot, he must be cooking some foreign breakfast from Africa or something without telling me beforehand, he always screws up and forgets something, I have to be there to help him like some mother—_

In a quick rush of decisiveness I opt for the left hallway, feeling some sort of drunken compulsiveness, and I drag my feed forward, every step uncoordinated and shaky, my body lumbering left and right as I trudge down the hall.

"W—Warren!" I find myself calling; my heart is reaching, twisting, my stomach tightens, my breath is picking up, faster and faster—

"Haylin?" a voice calls, far ahead of me, and I can't help but perk up, my head snapping up in surprise— my eyes widen, and I suck in a breath. I can't help but notice the tears that begin to stain my eyes— _What? What's going on?_

"Haylin!" says the voice again— and in a stab of pain, I realize it's not Warren— but I still stagger forwards, making my way towards the voice— it's so familiar, yet so unrecognizable, it's unbearable— but I still go forward, still push myself forwards.

I find my voice. "...Mom?" I call out weakly, pathetically, and the voice— _my mother's voice_— is panicked when she calls out my name again. Another voice joins her's, deep and masculine and one that seems to echo with music, even within its dark woody bases— _Dad?_— and it seems to also bear my mother's own concern.

"M—Mom? Dad?" I don't know why I'm crying. Tears stream down my face like waterfalls; my voice chokes, and I cannot understand why.

I keep going, and light touches the floorboards before me from the right hallway, and I turn, blinking both hot tears and hot light out of my eyes, and I see my parents at a dinner table I cannot recognize, eyes wide as they are up on their feet, looking worried.

The tears are streaming freely (_Why, I cannot understand why_) and my voice is tightening, my throat is tightening— my whole body is tightening. I can't breath— maybe I am, maybe I am not, but all I am aware of it the hollow beating of my heart, the expressions on my parent's faces, and the blinding brightness of the glaring morning sun as I whisper, "Where's Warren?"

The next thing I realize are my parents, pulling me into tight embraces— I feel the tears on their cheeks as they do, hot and burning like my own— and my screams of agony, tearing at my throat.

* * *

They tell me he's dead— he's been gone, for a long long long long time.

Ever since I— _we_— was just a child. Just at the tender age of three.

_I just went to sleep by his side side, just last night— _

I have next to no memory of him, they tell me. Only subconsciously, from when we were children— I cannot know what he looks like.

_He has short, scruffy, unmatted hair I always tell him to brush, too light to be a true blond, too dark to be a true brunet. The brightest blue eyes ever. That baby face of his, how can I ever forget— _

They tell me he was taken— there one night, gone the next— they had found my by his side, screaming and screaming and screaming and holding onto what was the only remainder of my brother— a toddler's fistful of a baby blue blanket— it must have fallen or broken off, they tell me.

_I would never let that happen. No one touches my brother, they can try the best they can, but only over my dead body—!_

It happens all the time, they tell me. The attacks. The mornings, filled with my screams, demands for my brother; the nightmares. The fear. All the tears— my heart breaking into millions and millions of tiny little pieces— it's nothing new.

_No. No, you can't tell me that!— no, you can't tell me he's dead. He's not gone. He was there, I swear, my brother, he couldn't be just _gone_, I would never let that happen, don't lie _to me—!

He is dead.

He is gone.

just

like

_that._

But... how?

* * *

It takes me too long to realize what's going on. I should've seen it the moment I'd woken up— everything pointed to it!— Warren's 'death', the unfamiliar surroundings, _my dream from last night—_

_How could I have not seen this?_

My parents are in the kitchen, just before the stove, behind the archway that separate the kitchen from the dining room. It's morning; warm golden sunlight tumbles from the windows, peeking from between the tall concrete walls that line the street and sidewalks. People make their way up and down the streets, the cars running cheerily through the roads, their words rumbles of conversation that hover and rest over the city like a thick winter blanket.

It's silent in the house; after the confrontation, my parents had fallen into a shared silence, and were wise to move away and into the kitchen, knowing that I would need my space for a while.

And it's a good thing, too— for I'm beginning to fall into confusion.

_This isn't right_. From my place on the wooden chair by the windowsill, I see the cars— they're nothing like what I am used to. They are loud, and spit out more thick clouds than I thought possible; they're barely held together by the thin metal frames they are made of, looking as if they're aluminum cans, and honk like geese.

They look ancient, antique; it looks as if it's jumped straight out of a World War I textbook, a museum, my uncle's car collection back in France— and instead of being all black and white or grainy fading bland hues on cracked yellow photographs, or collecting dust in an exhibit long forgotten, or polished clean day by day but has never touched a street in over fifty years— they, instead look— are!— _alive_. They are worn out from miles (kilometers?) and years (months?) of work, but still are as good as new; they've been through rain and snow, yet are still lovingly taken care of.

The people's clothing are a similar story— it, too, looks ancient— or, at least, outdated. They also seemed to have come anywhere— _anytime_— other than what I was used to; the women wear browns and grays and the occasional dull greens and blues and in a style I recognize from black and white photos from my history textbook, of German (German?) civilians during the war effort, in their young country; the men wear overalls of the same dreary palette, but despite all that there seems to be a buzz of ecstasy in the air, bright smiles evident on almost everyone's faces. I could see children, running in the streets, bright hair and bright eyes unmistakable as they chase one another with toys and balls in hands.

The lump in my throat is unmistakable.

_I am not home._

My voice quivers; I need one last request. Just—just to make sure. "...M—Mom? Dad?"

My mother's face appears in the archway; her bright blue eyes (_oh dear God, they're so much like Warren's—_) wide with concern; my father is beside her, one of his large tanned hands resting gently on her shoulder.

(And, there, I notice; they're wearing the same thing as the people outside, and, oh God, I know I do not know them, and they do not know me)

"Yes?" Clara's voice, too much like my own mother's yet too foreign to be her's, is wary, weary, concerned; my heart wretches for her. "Do you need anything, dear?"

"We'll get you anything you need," abruptly puts in Adan, his voice quick, stammering over his words— I know he just wants his daughter to be happy. He cannot take this, either. "D—don't worry. You don't have to do anything today, I promise. Your mother and I will take care of that for you, okay?"

It really hurts; to see them like this, not at all what I've been used to, what I've grown to love, what I've grown to know so well. But I can't let them see that.

"No, it's fine," I tell them. I keep the shaking out ot my voice the best I can. "I'll… just go outside. I… I just need to take a walk."

The words are so hollow and dead.

But, nevertheless, a soft smile tugs at my mother's face; her hands clasp together, and I can see her fighting her tears; blink, blink, rapid blinks; her jaw clenches slightly, and she's trying to be strong.

_Please, don't do that_, I want to tell her, _it's fine; I can handle it. You don't need to take it yourself_.

But what could I tell her?

"That sounds well," she says with false conviction, the lie of excitement edging her voice; "We'll prepare some food for you, later, when you come back—"

"You won't have to," I say suddenly, getting up abruptly, one hand on the table, "it's fine. I'll go… buy something myself, on my own. I'm not even hungry, anyway."

Pain and slight disappointment flashes in Clara's eyes, but Adan, being ever the strong and sturdy man, just tilts a head curiously, but does not comment. Instead, he speaks up: "Haylin," he tells me, "if you're going to get some food on your own, then you'll have to bring your things, don't you?"

He makes his way out of the safety of the kitchen archway, away from my mother, and in almost complete silence, aside from the rustle of people outside and the muted shuffling of his slippers on the dusty wooden floor below his feet he crosses the dining room to a table just by the wall that leads into the living room, leading to the door. He gently picks up a leather brown shoulderbag, aged and dusted from years of wear, by the long leather strap, looking as if it was almost sandpapered down, and walked over to me almost serenely, lips pursed into a straight line.

It's almost as if this morning has dampened the day; I feel guilty.

For a moment, he refuses to meet my eyes, but just before stopping before me he glances up, hesitantly and briefly; alarmed, I can see the tears lining his eyelids.

_He's worried. _The words hit me like a wave. _His daughter… he can't take the pain. He knows it's been going on, he's grown to familiarize the screams, the tears— but he can't get used to it. This… this must be new. He's worried I may do something._

Almost immediately I want to backtrack, change my mind, say I want to stay home and comfort the both of them, no matter how much I do not know them— but I still refuse to. I feel selfish— but I feel compelled to go outside— prove to myself something I still cannot fully understand or comprehend. _Something's going on_.

"Here," he says softly, voice just above a whisper, and instead of simply handing it to me he reaches out and pulls the strap over my head; he rests the bag on my right side, taking my hand and placing over the bag, his strong yet gentle thick palms carefully adjusting the strap before patting it on my shoulder. Hesitantly he takes a step back, and smiles at me.

"You go ahead and have a good walk there, Hay-Hay." The nickname causes my throat to tighten. "We'll be waiting here patiently whenever you come back, okay?"

It sounds like I'm off to my death. The tight and dark air about us is almost unbearable, and I can't help but feel the need to get rid of at least some of it, just to lighten their spirits.

"Don't worry." I allow a small smirk to graze my lips playfully. "I'll be back before you know it, Dad. Don't worry a bit, okay?"

I'm relieved, almost mildly ecstatic as I see some light blossoms in his and Clara's eyes; he smiles softly back, and in a possible streak of slight frivolity he chuckles softly and ruffled my hair. "Gotcha."

Clara's still hovering in the archway, mildly wary; she's looking as if she's trying to pull away, just a little, even when Adan speaks to her. "Clara? Don't worry; she promised to come home, okay?"

She is silent for a moment; her eyes flicker with something I can't recognize (_What happened? What is she thinking of?_) before she visibly swallows and nods slowly.

I can't help but crack another small smile. "Thanks, Mom, Dad." I smile at each in turn, and grasp the leather strap with one hand, making my way towards the door. "See ya later."

I don't look back as I open the door to bright morning light, step into the streets, and shut the door behind me, unable to help but shiver as the door clocks with an ominous _click_.

And, with that, I am outside.

The warm air hits me smack in the face; I cough, and I rub furiously at my eyes, the dusty air causing tears to well up. I pause; I look back at the house again— the window has been drawn to a close, and I hear nothing inside. I am afraid to rest my ear against the door in fear of being discovered, so instead I pull away, onto the street— and I find myself tearing through the people, the cars, my feet and hair flying, to a destination even I do not know.

People's faces whiz by— alarmed, surprised, curious, mildly irritated, not even paying attention: but I am unaware of it, and all I hear is the beating of my heart, the having of my breath— and the questions throbbing in my mind.

_This is not right._

_This is not right._

_What is going on? What happened? Wha—_

What _time _am I in? Where— where _am _I?

The answer comes with a little boy.

He's a small blond boy; his hair is somewhat darker, somewhat of a dirty-blond, giving him a bit of the appearance of a brunet (_Oh, God, he reminds me so much of Warren—_), and he has small dark eyes with fair skin, hints of a possible Asian parent or grandparent sprinkled within his features. He stops me, eyes bright and wide (or, at least, as wide as they could go) and taps my shoulder.

"Hello!" the boy chirps brightly; he beams at me. I notice the handbag slung across his left shoulder, the bundle of thick and rolled white, crisp papers tucked into the bag, and he's handing me one of the rolled up papers— a newspaper. "Miss! Would you care for a paper?"

A paper boy? Do they even have those in this time...?

"...sure," I finally say hesitantly, my voice coming out like molasses; I'm unsure of what to say, but I figure it wouldn't hurt.

He beams again, and I can't help but smile at him in return. He tells me the price— and I quickly rummage through my own things, trying my best to guess at to what these _cenz _are— and in not too much time I find myself alone again, having traded the boy the money for the paper, said newsboy already tearing down the street on his small, chubby legs in pursue of a new customer.

I'm pausing, for some reason; I'm hesitating, because I do not want to see what I'm sure I'm going to see, what I know I'm going to see— but there is no use in stalling, so with shaky hands I hold up the paper, my hands trailing up to the top of the cover page when I see—

The date.

_15 September, 1914._

The headlines scream something about serial killers, and accidents, and theives— but I do not pay attention, I do not notice, aside from one, tiny, insignificant detail— _they all mention alchemy._

Abruptly the noises are louder, the lights are brighter, the spinning is more evident, but I cannot pay attention, and I can only think of one thing before it all crashes and it all goes dark—

_I am in... Amestris._

_I am in... Fullmetal Alchemist._

I am not home.

* * *

**A/N: That took a heck lot longer than I expected— ah, looks like almost two months...?**

**I apologize for the inactivity. Life hasn't... really been the best. I mentioned earlier how I was going to be in Creative Writing, yes?- well, it turns out... it really wasn't so. It's complicated, but, in a nutshell, seniors and juniors get first pick, despite all the efforts a pathetic sophomore puts in (aka talking to the guidance counselor, talking to the vice principal, talking to the teacher who taught the class, and talking to a bunch more adults than you had previously initialized when you're this shy little androgynous Asian girl who gets past her fear because of how badly she wants it) to get into the class (accounting up to, ah, perhaps a week's worth of it). **

**It's even worse when you manage to get into the class for one stinkin' day just to get called into the office and hear that you have to get out.**

**All personal turmoil aside— it's also a horrid combination of high-school swimming, Cambridge level classes, high-school insanity, and just plain old writer's block that's been keeping this particular chapter on hold. The entire time I was one-hundred percent aware of what exactly I wanted to write, but in my angst and insanity (and writer's block, let's not forget that) has muddled my mind on how, exactly, I should execute it. As you can see, I've managed to do it— to an extent. I didn't get all I wanted in, and I think this feels too much like a filler. Eh. I suppose it's fine.**

**On another note— no one's been asking, but I feel obliged to say it. So— no OC/Canon romance whatsoever. Gah, it's just that... I'm not the biggest fan of it, though it depends on the circumstances. FMA in particular is one of them— it has too many canon ships— both implied and hard canon— for me to really enjoy a good OC/Canon fic, despite how good the writing can really be. (And Ed with anyone other than Winry... she can be annoying, at times, but **_**him **_**with anyone else... it gets on my nerves, since he's a character I relate so much to on so many levels. It almost feels personal, ahaha.)**

**So on pairings and romance!— no OC/Canon **_**romance**_**, but perhaps there may be platonic, who knows? There's the typical canon ships such as EdWin, Royai, and perhaps even AlMei and LingFan that may slip its way into the fic, though it isn't granted and won't be too much of an important thing if it does, anyway. However— since this is an OC fic, and the fact that there will be a heck-lotta more Amestris OCs in this fic (other than Haylin from our world) there will be a particular OC/OC couple in here, if y'all don't mind.**

**Okay, then! Wow, that took a lot longer than expected. Hopefully next time updates'll come by faster and useless author's notes'll be shorter, but we can't know for sure. Until then— **_**ciao**_**!**

—**Ten Reasons**


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